


play-by-play

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Texting, more crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Mycroft has a secret admirer, who stalks him through texts.





	play-by-play

When Mycroft gets the initial text, his first thought is “must be Andrea.”

 

_ 11:30 - 1 pm, meeting with PM _

 

He has indeed just stepped through the doors of a closed meeting, off-books, of course, and is checking his phone for the first time in two and a half hours. First, he thinks that perhaps he has missed a text, which had been delayed due to signal issues or something or the other. Then he catches the timestamp. It is not 6:30 a.m., the time which his dedicated PA would normally have sent such an itinerary reminder. The text also comes from a blocked number.

 

So his second thought is, “We have a security leak.”

 

He tells Andrea as much, and the appropriate precautions are taken so as to throw this leak off. Signals are scrambled, codes are updated, and individuals are given different bits of information so as to suss out this leak.

 

The next day, as Mycroft is getting into his car, he gets his second anonymous text.

 

_ 3 pm, tea at the Palace _

 

He frowns, glancing up to give the palace a last look. Not a leak then, but a tail. The planted information had yet to surface any results, and by the looks of this new message, the texter is watching Mycroft, not hacking his schedule. 

 

But what for?

 

Mycroft spends the entirety of the next day in his club, working away from the windows and in perfect, harmonious silence. The phone sits on his desk, and not once does it light up with an anonymous text. The closest thing is a barrage of typos from his brother Sherlock, demanding Mycroft unfreeze his own checking account so that Sherlock can have access to it.

 

He is getting into his car when he finally gets the text.

 

_ 9:36 pm, time to go home! _

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. This text contains a lot more color than the previous ones, which could have been read as either routine or menacing. This is a taunt.

 

It’s also a remarkable show of hand. Mycroft knows every sightline around his club. He knows the angles of every camera, he knows the names and addresses of every owner in every establishment in the block around his building. 

 

He looks around. It’s not his own driver who is compromised, and that is a relief. But there is a barista working a little coffee stand on the ground floor of the building opposite, who is the very definition of a civilian.

 

It’s all  _ incredibly _ obvious. Why is a coffee stand open nearly a quarter to 10?

 

Mycroft marches over, ignoring his driver’s questioning after him.

 

She is a graduate student, with too much eyeliner, and she startles and stumbles over her words when Mycroft asks what exactly she was paid in order to keep tabs on the club members’ coming and goings this day. It’s all much too much of a nuisance, and Mycroft settles for confiscating her phone as a matter of Important Business, and takes the car home in a huff.

 

He scrolls through the texts, which are not at all illuminating. Fat man, gray suit. Glasses, black suit and yellow tie arriving. Et cetera. Mycroft rolls his eyes and contemplates throwing the phone out the window. 

 

He wonders if he should text back.

 

The next morning he  _ does _ get a text at 6:30, when he might normally receive a similar text from Andrea. It is not from Andrea. It is from the same blocked number, which he can now presume to be someone who is both watching him  _ and _ has access to his schedule  _ and _ knows him well enough to fill in the unwritten gaps.

 

His whole day has been spelled out, and it is not wholly inaccurate.

 

_ 8:15 am, arrive at main office _

 

_ 12 noon, lunch with the ambassador _

 

_ 1:48 or thereabouts, field annoying request from brother _

 

_ 3:30 pm, give report on elections _

 

_ 5 pm, pick up suit _

 

_ 5:33 pm, make sad faces as cake display on way to car _

 

_ 6 pm, to the club _

 

As he scrolls down the text, he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. He is used to being at the other end of such unsympathetic surveillance, to say the very least.

 

Mycroft calls his assistant to reschedule all meetings, and then calls his boss (one of many, anyway) to change the report to a teleconference from his own home, this very morning. He feels oddly calm, more or less, about all of this - except the little jibe about Sherlock. That feels, strangely, more personal than the jab about his diet or any other insinuation of his being a creature of habit, and, yes, comfort. He won’t deny that he is protective, and those tendencies are currently in loud protest.

 

He makes another call to his assistant, calling for a closer guard on Sherlock and his doctor friend. 

 

By noon, it is apparently evident that not only has Mycroft changed his schedule in light of this text, but he is not planning to honor any of the appointments he had made. He receives one more text.

 

_ :( _

 

His fingers twitch with curiosity.  _ What do you want? _ , he wants to ask. He opts for silence. It would be unseemly to negotiate.

 

There are no more texts that day, and anticipation settles into his very bones as he wakes the next morning. 

 

There is already a single text, sent in the middle of the night.

 

_ 5:30 am, contemplate hiding at home, so as to not be seen _

 

It would be absurd to do so once again, Mycroft tells himself. He gets ready and gets dressed, and per usual.

 

Late morning, as he is crossing the street from one building to his next meeting, he hears the new  _ ping! _ of his text notification, rather than the usual silent mode he keeps his phone on, and checks it as soon as he’s on the pavement.

 

_ Nice tie. _

 

He freezes in his tracks, snapping back to sense only a moment later. He calls Andrea. He has her check all the tapes.

 

Mycroft is back in his office when Andrea comes in with a folder. Her expression is schooled, but he can sense slight agitation. She’s a little shaken - it means they found something.

 

He holds his hand out, and she sets the folder down in it. There is just a single image, blown up from one of the tapes.

 

Jim Moriarty, wearing shades and a designer suit, stands underneath the shade of an awning, head tilted up straight toward the camera. He is waving.

 

“Bring him in,” Mycroft says.

 

Moriarty has always been but a mild nuisance; more a problem for law enforcement than intelligence, and Mycroft has yet to decide whether his brother’s recent interest in Moriarty’s business is worth any concern. Well, it hadn’t been, until now.

 

Andrea nods, then steps out to make the call.

 

It turns out Moriarty can be rather good at hiding when he wants to be; he hears once they are close to apprehending him, only to learn the trail was a decoy. Mycroft is already home and the last update was hours ago. He hopes for better news in the morning, but is not optimistic.

 

He wonders, as he picks up his phone the next morning, what it will be this time. His schedule? A taunt? Would they finally be moving into negotiations, perhaps?

 

Whatever it is he expected, it is not this.

 

_ 5:30 am, wake and check phone with budding hopefulness. He has missed these tender messages from his secret admirer, and cannot wait to hear from him again. _

 

Mycroft blinks and has to read it again, wondering whether he is still asleep. He is not. 

 

And it gets worse. The text is long - it is a full day’s itinerary this time, but it is nowhere near as realistic as the one he had previously received. No, each item on this day’s schedule matches the tone and absurdity of the first. 

 

_ 5:40 am, he stretches, smiling with the thought of his admirer. There is a full day’s work ahead, but he can’t help as his thoughts drift toward his secret admirer near constantly. Even in the shower… _

 

_ 6:15 am, he picks an outfit to accentuate his best assets. And a tie to bring out his eyes even from afar. Who knows who will be watching today? _

 

_ 8:15 am, finally in the office, with full access to the network of cameras. He should be using them only when he receives trace of potential unusual activity, but instead he combs through the feeds, hoping to catch a glimpse of his admirer. _

 

_ 9:00 am, he takes his tea break sighing by the window, hoping that if he isn’t able to see his admirer, perhaps at least he will be seen. It is difficult, not having a way to communicate. He breathes onto the glass, and traces a heart with his finger, hoping this will be seen. _

 

Mycroft frowns until it is impossible to frown any harder.

 

What nonsense. What twaddle. He feels impatient exasperation rising, as he scrolls, quickly, trying to reach the end of this novel-length  _ fiction _ of his day. He sees he’s wasted nearly three minutes, by the time he gets near the end.

 

_ 6:15 pm, his face lights up as he hears the sound of a new text. It is an invitation to dinner, with his admirer. He quickly accepts, not caring if he comes off too eager.  _

 

Good God!

 

_ 10:42 pm, with a hand on his thigh and lips just a breath away, he couldn’t be more gratified with his decision to invite his admirer back into his home for drinks after dinner. Of course, drinks were not the goal. This was, this- _

 

Mycroft turns the display off, throwing his phone on the bed. He will not read a single word more of this utter tripe. He is going to take a shower. Internally, he refuses to acknowledge the fact that it is about to turn 5:40, just as the schedule predicted. 

 

When Mycroft comes back out of the bathroom in a fluffy robe in a huff, he doesn’t give the mobile a second glance. Instead, he dons his slippers and stomps out to his office to pick up the landline, dialing as he grumbles his grievances.

 

“Andrea? Get me a new mobile, and a new number. I’m disposing of the current one as we speak. Please make the necessary arrangements.”

 

Then he feeds his phone down his garbage disposal.

 

Mycroft goes to work without the damned thing, and feels blessedly light. Free from the hold of modern technology. It is a wonderful feeling, that only lasts as long as it takes for him to get into his office, where his new mobile device sits waiting and ready for him.

 

He thanks Andrea, and then turns it on, seeing she has already set it all up for him. Begrudgingly, he accepts the idea of mobile device ownership once again. It is not so bad. He is still blessedly text-free.

 

Until around 2 in the afternoon. 

 

Mycroft nearly jumps out of his seat when the phone  _ pings!  _ with a new text. He cannot explain the utter relief that washes over him when he realizes it is only Sherlock. Something about calling the goons off or this or that. Oh yes, he had assigned additional security detail to 221B just a day ago. In light of his emotional trauma, it had slipped his mind. 

 

He texts back, feigning ignorance unconvincingly. They both know he knows everything.

 

Then he settles back into the comfortable knowledge that he is once again in control. The sole overseer of his life. No anonymous little criminal lynchpins making faces at him at the cameras, texting him sordid details about a fictional, lovesick version of himself.

 

Moriarty must be  _ utterly delusional. _

 

He settles back into this comfortable ease, working through the rest of the day until it is time for him to leave the office and take refuge in his club. Blessed silence, blessed solitude. He toys with the idea of enforcing a no-mobile devices rule across certain rooms of the Diogenes as well. As he does, he nearly misses the  _ ping! _ of a new text notification on his phone.

 

Frowning, he picks it up.

 

_ Dinner, Mr. Holmes? xx JM _

 

Mycroft drops his phone as if it burned. It doesn’t, unfortunately, prevent him from reading the second text that comes a moment later.

 

_ Come on...give me a chance. _

_ I’ve a feeling our love story could be one for the books. _

_ Xx JM _

 

Mycroft stares at the little words on the screen, unable to look away.

 

“Andrea?” he calls. He’ll need yet another number. Better yet, no number at all. Yes, they could figure out a way to make that happen. Better yet, Andrea would field all his messages going forward. Yes, that could work. He’d never text again. Horrible form of communication, anyway. 

 

Whatever happened to homing pigeons? 

 

Or telegrams? 

 

They could communicate by code. He’d come up with a few dozen this evening alone, so that he could accept messages in a new code every day. Yes, that would work. 

 

Mycroft picks up the phone, intending to turn the infernal device off and break the sim card, when it lights up with yet another text from Moriarty.

 

_ Oh, silly me! I nearly forgot. _

_ Here’s my number: _

 

Below is a string of digits, underlined and in blue - he only has to tap on it to make a call.

 

Mycroft hesitates.

 

“Sir?” Andrea is standing in the doorway, politely looking like nothing is out of place even as Mycroft stares bug-eyed at his phone, holding it like a live grenade.

 

“Um. Sorry. It’s nothing. I’ve just got to take this call.”

 

“Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes,” she says, closing the door.

  
  
  



End file.
